


Dulcet: Draco Malfoy

by cate_mb



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Character Death, Death Eater Attacks, Death Eater Draco Malfoy, Death Eaters, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Kinks, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, References to Depression, Slow Burn, Top Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:34:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29342889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cate_mb/pseuds/cate_mb
Summary: Dulcet:  A sweet and soothing sound.Voldemort is dead. They had won the relentless war. Unfortunately, the suffocating air of distress had lingered; even after Harry Potter emerged from Voldemort's wrath having murdered the nasty bastard, the notion had remained. However, this looming feeling of unsettling felt personal to Lyra Wolf. With the war no longer preventing her learning, Lyra was forced to return to Hogwarts in order to complete her seventh year, but she had lost so much. How could she possibly go back? There are several secrets awaiting Lyra at Hogwarts, and trust me, they are quite the surprise. Suddenly, the devastation of the war made Draco Malfoy's rubbish attitude become understandable; almost irresistible. She finds herself caught between rational thinking, and a sudden need to be rebellious. Malfoy is the epitome of rebellious behavior....Mature content, themes, and explicit language.Harry Potter is the property of J.K Rowling, however, I added some very interesting twists compared to the real storyline J.K. Rowling created.This fan fiction is of my creation, however, similar concepts have been seen in other fan fictions with a similar theme.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 2





	1. Fragmented

_Lyra_

Tranquility never lasts.

They were the same words that had been repeated to her on numerous occasions throughout her younger years at Hogwarts.

Those words were first spoken to her when she was just a petite toddler. She only had a recollection of the event because it had sparked a sense of curiosity into her youthful thoughts that she would never forget. She wondered what could possibly interrupt the sense of calm that surrounded her in her family's small bungalow. Had she known what was awaiting her future self, she would not have had such misleading thoughts.

Once again, she came across the words, this time in her own mind, when, on a regular night in the Gryffindor common room, she was reading. This was an activity that had become quite the enjoyable hobby of hers. At the time, Lyra had been lost in the usual state of bliss she experienced while being enthralled in the pages of a book, when suddenly, Fred Weasley barged in through the Fat Lady's painting, and set off an explosion of magical fireworks. The interruption to her tranquility was brief, but it was enough to bring those words hurtling into the forefront of her mind.

The latest instance in which the words had been spoken to her was on a dark and gloomy day when she and Harry had been in Professor McGonagall's office discussing the return of the worst wizard to ever exist; Voldemort of course. The wise words had slipped through the professor's mouth during conversation. Despite hearing the words from her very own role model, whom she regarded with great respect, Lyra, being ignorant, still maintained the belief that tranquility would never cease to exist.

She could clearly recall the effervescent version of herself she kept stored away in the very back of her mind ever since her world had come crashing down. The version that would wake up to the mellifluous melody of birds chirping, and hop out of bed to initiate light banter with her muggle parents.

Never had she thought she would end up being a depressed witch.

Never did she think, no matter how many times she heard them from those with more knowledge then her, that the words could be true. Or worse, exceedingly accurate.

She vividly recalled when being a witch was a source of ebullience for her young mind. She was so damn oblivious then. The oblivion was comforting, that was something she could admit, but it was ephemeral. It didn't last. No. Instead, reality came as an even greater shock after having been ignorant to it for so long.

_____________ ... _____________

She woke with an abrupt start.

Lately, it seemed as if this was the only way she could wake up. Caught in the middle of a scream, cold sweat dripping down her spine, and her features pinched together into a tormented guise. It had become such a commonality for her that she simply ignored the sheer layer of sweat that had built up on her forehead, blinked away the residue of tears under her sunken eyes, and indifferently crawled out of bed.

Taking a brief glance at her awful reflection in the mirror, she looked down to avoid her rough appearance, and found that her hazel eyes wandered to the letter she had received by owl two weeks ago.

It was the very letter that had been haunting her ever since Nadine, her lovely eagle owl, had dropped it onto her desk.

_Dear Ms. Wolf,_

_We are pleased to inform you that the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has been restored to its original state, and all 7th years will be required to retake their classes. We feel that after the unfortunate events of your last years at Hogwarts, it would only be proper to ensure that your education does not suffer as a result of such troubling times. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31._

_Yours truly,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress_

She would have to return to Hogwarts.

The place where she had witnessed the deaths of her friends; where families were forever torn apart; where she had fought against the vicious Death Eaters, and where she had ultimately been the one to kill Voldemort.

No one knew it of course, but she had been the one to hit Voldemort with the killing curse that ended his life. It was not Harry, her best friend at the time. It was her. And had it been Harry, she would not be suffering like she had been ever since that night.

When the killing curse had made impact with Voldemort's chest, just at the same time as he had shot an unsuccessful killing curse at Harry, a flash of images played in her head.

They were terrible. Screams filled every space of her brain and she collapsed. No one had noticed Lyra's sudden drop when they were celebrating the death of the Darkest Wizard of all time.

The images, she realized, were flashes of the past. Flashes of every awful, indescribable bit of history inflicted by Voldemort to ever exist. It seemed that somehow, Voldemort's death, had erupted the images into her mind, causing pounding pulses of blood to rush into her head as she viewed every death, torture, and pain that the Dark Lord had ever cast on another individual. It had broken her.

Voldemort had caused so much pain to those that had family members slaughtered by his followers, and to those that endured the pain of his cruciatus curse themselves. Let alone those who were left dead in the infamous Battle of Hogwarts.

But at that very moment, she didn't care. The only thing that she could think was to beg for the pain to stop. But she was unable to make a noise, and if she did, the others were too busy celebrating his death to notice her screams and the agonized expression she knew made up her features anyways.

Upon the end of the haunting images, she had blacked out and woke in the Great Hall. Her muggle family surrounded her wearing wistful smiles on their faces as she slowly got up. She almost smiled happily back at them, that is, until the memory of the images came rushing back.

Suffocating in the tight embraces from her mum and dad, she brushed them aside and looked around to push away the images when she noticed the bodies that encompassed the table she had been splayed across.

Fred's blank eyes stared back at her once her confused eyes fell upon his body, surrounded by the Weasley family. Her second family.

Molly was sobbing into the still chest of her dead son while George, whipping away the river of tears leaving his sad eyes, comforted his mum. Ron was close to his mum, attempting to shake his dead brother awake with futile effort. Ginny and the rest of her brothers were crowded around them releasing some more tears, and Arthur was staring straight ahead, seeming as though he could not comprehend his surroundings.

With the need to look away from the fragmented family, she moved her gaze to Harry who looked like he could use a gallon of firewhiskey. She followed Harry's stare to the couple laying down with their hands nearly touching. She recognized their faces.

It was Tonks and Lupin. The couple that had taken her in when she could no longer put her muggle family in danger by being in their presence. The couple who she had loved, and who had just had a baby.

Lastly, her eyes lingered on the white haired family that looked so out of place, she couldn't help but stare. Ugh. The Malfoy's. She hated the Malfoy's.

Overtaken by a violent sob that was caught in the middle of her throat, Lyra repositioned her now blurry gaze to her real parents and broke down into an uncontrollable blubber.

Since that moment, she has heard of the deaths of many of her close friends, and has become immune to the initial shock that she first experienced when hearing of such horrors. That doesn't mean that the nightmares ever stopped. It doesn't mean that she forgot the faces of those who died in the Battle. She would never forget.

So that was how she lived.

She would wake up in her boring bed back in her muggle home; avoid talking with anyone by locking her room and disregarding the pile of letters her owl brought, and she would sit in her room, barely consuming a small meal, all while enduring the silent tortures of the battle's remains. And then, repeat.

Now, the letter meant that she was being forced to break the cycle she had slowly become accustomed to, and she had to go back to bloody Hogwarts; the place where her life was destroyed and had lost all meaning.

How convenient.

____________ ... ____________

Grumbling to herself, Lyra dragged her heavy trunk towards the brick wall in between platforms 9 and 10 at Kings Cross Station.

Nonchalantly, she leaned her body into the wall, to remain inconspicuous to the muggles that bustled by, and she sunk through onto platform 9 ¾. Her muggle parents, who still seemed amazed by the simple act, even after doing it for 7 years, followed closely behind her while holding hands.

Wearing a simple white top, low-waisted jeans, and a grey zip-up sweater, in order to blend in with the muggles, Lyra said rushed goodbyes to her parents, as she was already slightly late to boarding the Hogwarts Express.

She wore a penitent expression while walking towards the train's entrance because she honestly felt bad for her parents.

Ever since the battle, they had made sure to give her space to grieve and heal, but she sensed their trepidation when they spoke to her. It was as if they were frightened that she would crumple onto the floor if they said the wrong thing, much like she had throughout the first week following the event.

She didn't blame them because she knew that they were just attempting to ease her pain, however, they would never understand what ran through her thoughts in the darkest of times.

Stuck in the battle that was her musings, Lyra was unaware of the tall figure that stood in the way of the train's entrance she was headed straight towards.

Entirely insensible, she slammed straight into the hard chest of the figure, and stumbled backwards, thoroughly bewildered by her lack of awareness. Shaken, she straightens her wrinkled sweater and glances at the fuming face in front of her.

It was none other than Draco Malfoy.

He was the idiot who granted passage to the Death Eaters who murdered Dumbledore, the only man that guarded the unsuspecting students at Hogwarts from harm at the time. Then, once he was dead, it marked the point in which Lyra's life took a turn for the worst.

The fool that stood in front of her was also dumb enough to get that ugly tattoo stamped onto his arm eternally, yet he and his mother found a way out of a life sentence in Azkaban. At least his monster of a father was not granted the same mercy, and he was to rot there.

The worst thing of it all was that she couldn't bring herself to purely loathe Draco because she knew that he didn't have a choice. Even after all the years of torment he had put her through, calling her a mudblood, and harassing her in the corridors, she was aware that what he did, he did to survive. But she quickly pushed aside those unsettling thoughts, and decided that if she had been in his situation, she would rather have died then swear allegiance to the Dark Lord himself.

Having been only a few seconds, she attempted to shoot Draco a menacing glare, but due to her worn down features, it appeared more like a feeble strive at a pout. Regardless, she stared straight into his stubborn grey eyes and shoved him aside before he could utter any insults at her like he had many times before on the same train.

Making her way down the row of compartments, searching for an empty one in which she could remain uninterrupted and read her book, she thought about how strange Draco looked.

He was dressed in a fitted black suit as always, but he looked almost...fractured. She supposed the war had done as much damage to his ego as it had done to her previously cheerful attitude, but it seemed so unlike him to show vulnerability. Especially in front of a "mudblood."

Frankly, it suited him. It was...nice to see that the formerly tough and superior Malfoy heir could actually experience pain. It pleased her that she was ot the only one suffering, but it disgusted her that she had found his pain attractive.

How odd.

Lyra made her way to an empty compartment all the way in the back, thankfully avoiding her friends who she hadn't spoken too since the war.

She sat down and pulled out her book, "Wuthering Heights," a piece of muggle literature that she had recently taken to re-reading. It enthralled her the way that two lovers could be so close to each other's grasps, yet never give into the sensation until it was too late.

Similarly, Lyra considered her relationship with Ron, Hermione, and Harry as something that was in her reach, but she couldn't build up the nerve to grab it and never let it go. It was not that she didn't want to laugh with them like they used to, but she felt it was unfair to bring her past friends into the spiral of despair that accompanied her presence.

She already felt horrid about disregarding the Weasley's letters that expressed their concern for her, but she couldn't bring herself to think about them for too long. Her last encounter with the family had been so melancholic after Fred's death that she could not bear to read their handwriting without succumbing to a bout of broken cries.

Pushing away the worrisome thought, like she had done with several similar thoughts during the summer, she resumed getting lost in the pages of Heathcliff and Catherine's complex love story.

After some time, Lyra decided to change into her robes, but when she arrived back at her compartment, it was now filled by another soul.

The boy turned to peer at her through long lashes, and with a mischievous look, he stated, "Oh- I was unaware that this compartment had been taken. That is quite unobservant of me."

___________ ... ____________


	2. ENIGMA

Lyra

"Um... It's alright, I don't mind your presence," Lyra stuttered awkwardly. "I mean— well, what I meant was that— you know what, never mind."

She was a bit flustered by his appearance. The boys' hazy blue eyes stared expectantly at her shy stance, while her hazel ones swept his relaxed figure.

His damp hair was slightly tousled, meaning that he had most likely taken a shower before getting on the train. His deep mahogany scent had filled the compartment, apparently enhanced by the shower, and his hands ran across the rough surface of a leather journal.

She scrutinized his position in the compartment, where he was entirely draped across one side of the train, his bag under his head, and his journal raised over his body. His legs were crossed, and his feet were moving to a beat that she was unable to distinguish.

He was undoubtedly attractive, however, there was something about the manner in which he spoke that could make no one doubt his intensity either.

He was an enigma.

She had never seen him before, and she knew nearly everyone in her year at Hogwarts. Maybe he was a transfer?

Unfortunately, Lyra noticed a little too late that she had been standing in the same spot by the door, and staring at the peculiar boy for longer than what was customary.

"Enjoying the view?" he smirked. "Oh— um—sorry I was just thinking." she said softly, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. What was wrong with her? She ignored his knowing gaze and walked to the other side of the compartment, picking up her book, and continuing where she left off.

There, much better. She was officially enthralled in the pages of Wuthering Heights for the third time that day (she kept getting interrupted), where she was once again puzzled by the masochistic and sadistic relationship between Katherine and Heathcliff. Her favorite line in the novel springing from the pages, as she read over the words to decipher their true meaning.

"Treachery and violence are spears pointed at both ends — they wound those who resort to them worse than their enemies."

Each time she read the words, they certainly resonated with her. This time, she thought about the war, and how her treachery, by not admitting that she had seen the worst parts of Voldemort's existence flash behind the whites of her eyes, was slowly eating away at her psyche.

It was a silent torture, to ignore the very thing that now rules the innerworkings of your mind, whilst pretending to be okay. To be "fine."

There are thousands, or for all she knew millions, of books that talk of a happily ever after, but perhaps it is just that; talk. The war will forever occupy the darkest corners of her mind, and no matter how much occlumency she learns, or how much effort she puts into forgetting, it is all futile in the end. Emily Bronte seems to be one of the few who knows this.

She must have let out a disgruntled noise because the boy was now looking at her oddly. Sighing, she grabbed her bookmark, and placed it on the page as it would be an incredible dishonor if someone were to doggy-ear the top of the page. Lyra placed the book into her satchel, and looked up at him.

"Sorry to annoy you, Catherine just happens to get on my nerves sometimes." she chuckled, inviting him to say something and stop looking at her like she was an incompetent child.

"Ah, yes, but I always found that Heathcliff was the one to shorten my temper. Although I do understand his reasoning behind everything; Catherine was a spoiled and outrageous woman with absolutely no sense of maturity," he said in a teasing tone.

So he knows his books; great.

Lyra's face contorted in irritation. She did admit that Catherine often made her vexed, but she admired Catherine's ability to love herself more than anyone else, despite being quite obviously self-absorbed. Yes, the quality ended up hurting everyone around her, but loving herself was the very thing that got her through life. It was self-preservation at its strongest.

She shifted in her seat and stared directly into the boy's eyes, "I was simply referring to the fact that Catherine can be— exasperating at times, but it doesn't mean I do not feel for her. Heathcliff completely disappeared and left her to fend for herself, yet she was able to find a husband that loved her unconditionally. I believe that takes a certain strength that most lack."

"Perhaps," he responded, never turning away from her gaze, "But she was selfish in doing so, and her sadistic tendencies were her ruin. She died and left everyone surrounding her miserable. At least Heathcliff was able to leave the place where he was being denied the respect he deserved, and come back a better man. That is more than Catherine can say."

Lyra could tell the argument was pointless so she scowled at him and reopened her book. "Whatever. I can see when an argument is not worth the effort." He scoffed and continued reading from his small leather-bound journal.

Unable to resist, she asked, "What are you reading, since it seems you are so easy to judge my choices in literature." He glanced up for a brief moment and reverted his eyes back onto the pages, "Nothing, it is just an old journal of mine that I discovered yesterday. I find that reading my past helps build my future."

"Oh— okay." Lyra awkwardly responded. She was beginning to think he was slightly strange, but before she could question him further, someone unexpectedly entered the compartment.

Looking quite startled, Draco Malfoy side-stepped his way through the doors, but came to a stop when he noticed it was taken. She took the time to analyze him and found that she had not noticed the dark circles under his eyes, and the way that he twitched unconsciously when she initially slammed into him and thought of only his aristocratic attractiveness.

He looked deathly. His previously pale skin looked grey at this point. His eyes were bloodshot, and he clearly had not slept for a while. His unusually perfect black suit was now wrinkled and faded, and his signature blonde hair was in a mess on the top of his head.

He was taller than she remembered, as she had to look straight up from her seat in order to meet his glare. Well, at least that had not changed. Draco Malfoy's trademark glare was now piercing into her eyes, but unlike the many instances in which she cowered under his attention, she glared right back at him, and added a snarl for effect, this time actually succeeding.

"Malfoy, I believe you have walked into an occupied compartment. Have you come to tell me that I am a filthy little mudblood, or is that no longer tradition?"

He flinched. "Bugger off Wolf; I'll go find another compartment that does not contain people who associate with scar-headed pricks." She smirked, "At least I do not affiliate myself with a monster like Voldemort."

Draco took a menacing step towards her and leaned down so that their noses were all but a few inches away from each other. "Have you finally grown the courage to say his name Wolf?" Her eye twitched with agitation, "I have always said his name Malfoy, you were just too busy wallowing over your mission to kill Dumbledore in 6th year to take notice."

He scoffed, "You know nothing. And if you are so mature, then learn how to properly put on a tie without help from someone else." She could feel her cheeks start to heat up as she thought about Fred's habit of tying her tie for her in the mornings before he and George left Hogwarts. Lyra gulped down a sob, and looked down at her Gryffindor tie hanging around her shoulders.

Before she could speak, Draco's hands roughly grabbed the ends of the tie, and made a perfect knot, a skill he probably developed from being the oh so prestigious Malfoy heir. He squeezed the tie around her neck to the point where she could hardly breathe, and slammed the doors to the compartment closed, leaving her red-faced and nauseous from the lack of oxygen.

She grumbled, and quickly unfastened the tie suffocating her, and looked at the boy who was reading his journal as if nothing strange had occurred at all.

Feeling her eyes on him, he turned his head to face her and stated, "That was pathetic." He turned back to the journal without another word.

Lyra, evidently dumbfounded by the boy's comment, let her mouth drop open in surprise for a moment before abruptly shutting it with a loud snap. Huffing impatiently, she fiddled with her skirt and deliberated her conversation with the blonde ferret.

For the first time ever, he did not take the opportunity to call her a mudblood. That was peculiar, but even so, what shocked her the most was his belligerent reaction to her remark regarding Voldemort. It seemed like he was genuinely insulted by implying he was one of his followers, and she could have sworn that she heard a hint of regret in his tone.

She grabbed her own journal out of her satchel and began writing her observations on Draco. She figured she would investigate more later. It had always been enthralling to compose a detailed analysis on individuals Lyra found compelling, and Draco Malfoy was surely one of the most complex people to study.

In her old analysis on Draco, the words "coward" "death eater" "murderer" and "misunderstood" were scrawled endlessly, however, she could never find any truly redeeming qualities to include in his file. The term "misunderstood" was just added as a gut feeling, but had no evidence to back up that Draco was indeed incorrectly interpreted. Perhaps her new analysis would uncover Draco's genuine intentions.

Her mind wandered to Harry, Ron, and Hermione, probably because Draco had just mentioned Harry in his argument with her. Their friendship started in first year when Hermione and her had barged into the boy's compartment to ask if they had seen Neville's toad.

Eventually, when the war began, Lyra helped them defeat Voldemort and destroy all of his Horcruxes. She was skilled at potions, and was able to develop a substance that coated daggers entirely, making them the most viciously lethal blades in all of the wizarding world.

The Thestral blood component meant that they were completely indiscernible to those besides the wielder, therefore making them nearly impossible to dodge. Quite honestly, without the blades, it is difficult to say that the Resistance would have won the war, had it not been for the many Death Eaters that were instantly killed by something so simple as a scratch from the sharp edge.

Only a few of the Resistance members were granted permission to use her deathly weapons, as they produced high conductivity when used in large quantities. Additionally, the ingredients were extremely rare and limited to create the potion, let alone to forge the blade strong enough to withstand being coated in a Hungarian Horntail's flame. Such supplies were particularly limited during the war, and most Order members were not skilled enough in knife work to properly utilize the weapon anyways.

Lyra's friendship with the trio stayed strong despite her constant need to develop the weapons, and advise the Order on battle tactics for the final skirmish, but now, with nothing to occupy her time or distract her from the reality of the war, she was unwilling to interact with them after so much had changed.

Now, she was drowning in her self-inflicted despair, and she was determined to not drag the trio into the chaos with her. She just had to hold on tightly to her last lifeline, and then maybe she would finally escape the turbulent waters.

The Hogwarts Express slowed down at the station, making her snap out of her reverie. The uncanny, yet for some unknown reason familiar, boy had rushed out of the compartment the moment the train had shown signs of coming to a stop. Again, she thought that his actions were a bit odd, but ended up disregarding it, and excusing it for being first-day nerves. She was sure that he was a transfer from some other magical school.

Lyra placed her journal back into her Satchel, thanks to the undetectable extension charm that Hermione placed on it while on their hunt for the Horcruxes, and she waited until enough time had passed for everyone to have gotten off the train.

Ironic isn't it? A Gryffindor's preceding reputation of being brave above the rest, while she, a Gryffindor, sat in her compartment, patiently awaiting the chance to leave undetected.

________________________ ... ___________________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and thanks for reading!


	3. SOMBER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the chapter... or else

Lyra

Her eyes began to water as she stared openly at the castle before her. What had been the wondrous home she anticipated arriving at each year following the summer holidays had become the place where she absolutely dreaded having to return to.

The Hogwarts castle had not changed one bit, and that is exactly why it all felt wrong. The towers were in the same position as before. The holes in the walls had been restored. The lights still shone dimly through the apertures along the castle, flickering from the magic that began to waver in the later hours of the evening. 

Thanks to the rebuilding effort, there was nothing to indicate that a war had taken place just two months ago.

Gossamer still entrapped the grass in a veil of dewy water vapor that reminded her of the days she and Harry had splayed themselves on the grounds, clothes getting slightly damp, contemplating their plans for the future that never came true. A scintilla of hope rose in her mind as she pondered the effervescence of the past, but it was soon squashed by the next thing her eyes came across.

On the far side of the grounds, opposite of Hagrid’s small and cozy hut, was the Battle of Hogwarts Memorial: rows and rows of graves that symbolized the sunken earth in which the fatalities of the war were buried, never to see the light of day again. 

She shifted uncomfortably, and decided to switch seats to the other side of the carriage, where she could not face the castle directly. In doing so, she caught a glimpse of the Thestrals pulling the carriage along, and she pondered how many people could actually see them now that the war was over. Probably a lot. 

Before the battle, she had never seen the ghastly creatures, but could only envision them based solely on Harry’s description. Now she understood why he was so taken aback the first time he saw them; they were tall and obsidian in color, but the way their bones protruded from under tight and thin skin reminded her so intensely of a corpse, she could literally discern the sour taste that was usually accompanied by a heave begin to grow in the back of her throat. 

Lyra had chosen the final carriage, so she was certain the sorting ceremony had already begun. It was hard to tell if this was a good thing or a terrible mistake. If she walked into the Great Hall while the ceremony was still taking place, then everyone would turn around and look to see who was late. On the other hand, if she had come in along with everyone else, then she would have been confronted by the Gryffindors, something she preferred to avoid as long as possible.

Unfortunately, she knew that avoiding the Gryffindors for the whole year would be impossible, and logistically there was no point in running away from the inevitable. The solitude had already made her want to splinch herself intentionally, so it was only a matter of time until she sought comfort in someone. 

Lyra had been tapping her feet in a pattern that resembled the mellifluous notes of her newest piano composition, when the carriage came to a stop. Taking a deep breath, steadying the pulse she could feel pounding throughout her body, Lyra stepped off of the carriage and began the walk towards the castle. 

She was trying incredibly hard to avoid looking at the rows of headstones, ensuring that her head was kept straight and chin held high the entire way. Her movements were slower than normal, undoubtedly her subconscious trying to delay entering the Great Hall, but in a matter of seconds, she was awaiting the moment she gathered enough confidence to enter through the double doors. 

After what seemed like hours, but in actuality was only a few minutes, she pushed open the ornate doors, and was confronted with a change in atmosphere that could only be allotted to her sudden arrival. 

A collective silence echoed soundlessly within the cavernous room as though a frisson had arisen at the abruptness of her presence. Cacophonies of murmurs followed the piercing silence when everyone noticed it was her. 

Of course, with her luck, she had interrupted the sorting ceremony. 

Her feet were unable to properly function as her heart sank to the bottom of her stomach at the realization, but she could not stop her hazel eyes from glancing at the Gryffindor table. 

Most of her friends held austere expressions, but she refused to meet their eyes for more than a few seconds. It was the sight of Draco’s sanctimonious little nod of amusement at the Slytherin table that goaded her into straightening her back, and holding her chin a little higher than before. The look Draco gave her as she awkwardly shuffled forward was redolent of deepest loathing, and she could swear on Merlin that he had somehow learned to read minds because it felt as though every one of her thoughts was being analyzed under a microscope the way his eyes pierced straight through her very soul. 

Next to him was the only person who had not taken notice of her, the boy on the train. He was sitting on the bench of the Slytherin table, scribbling into his journal with vigor, and casting disdainful looks at his writing every time he took a break to think. 

Too frightened to look back at Draco and confirm that he was still trying to tear her to shreds with his stony grey eyes, she chanced a glance back at the Gryffindor table to find them whispering into each other's ears. 

Hermione looked up just as she backed away from Ron’s ear, and gave her a doleful look through eyes that looked entirely the same as Lyra’s. Ron had always told them that he doubted they were not somehow distantly related because their eyes were the same shade of hazel and held the same fire in them that showcased the other’s desire to succeed. 

The sound of her name made her jump slightly, but when she noticed that it was Minerva McGonagall, the bespectacled headmistress of Hogwarts, who was beckoning her forward with an expression of pure irritation, her feet began functioning properly, and she was propelled onward. 

“Miss Wolf! It is a pleasure to see that you were able to make it to the ceremony before it ended. Please take a seat at your house table so that we can continue,” wrung McGonagall’s voice sarcastically.

Any sense of the relationship they had developed during the final battle was vacant in her expression, and Lyra could not help but flinch at the blatant look the headmistress was giving her.

McGonagall had been one of the few Order members that had been allocated the weapon of Lyra’s creation, as the professor at the time had helped her transfigure different materials needed for the concoction, therefore earning her the knowledge of the blade’s usage. Together, they had fought against the Death Eaters, effectively terminating many of them with a combination of spells and daggers.

When the fighting ceased, Minerva had grown to be a sort of mother figure for Lyra, but she had been so lost in the aftermath, that Lyra was unable to maintain their relationship. 

Sighing for what seemed like the dozenth time that day, Lyra moved towards her house’s table, looking down at her feet, and moving to sit in the space Hermione had made for her. Once the ceremony continued, the headmistress calling a transfer student that shuffled nervously up to the sorting hat, Hermione leaned forward to ask Lyra a question. 

“Lyra” she whispered almost threateningly, “Would it please you to inform me just why you have not answered any of our letters, calls, or messages for the last two months,” She huffed loudly, “You are aware that we even went to your house in london, knocked on your door until your parents told us that you would not take visitors, and considered breaking into your room had it not been for the numerous protective spells you placed all around the perimeter, right?”

Hermione’s face was turning a sickly shade of purple that made Lyra think she would pass out from the lack of oxygen she was currently using to scold her. For the second that Hermione did take in order to catch her breath, Lyra braced herself for another round of reprimands. 

“We were so worried about you, and the Weasely family has been grieving their loss, and you decide that you are going to- to ignore them, and us completely. Are you— “ Her whispers, that had escalated into hushed yells, were interrupted by Lyra’s hand covering Hermione’s open mouth.

When she thought it was safe enough to remove her palm from Hermione’s still agape lips, which had been effectively smothering Hermione’s sounds of protest, she wiped her palm on the back of her thigh and turned to Hermione’s fuming face. 

“Listen, I am so so so sorry for ignoring you guys, and I know you must have been so worried, and now that you mention the Weasley's I feel so terrible that I could just jump off a bridge to stop the self-hatred I feel from eating me alive, but I was just so….” Lyra’s lips trembled with emotion, and the space between her knotted eyebrows had creasing wrinkles of expressed agony.

“Well to be honest, I am still struggling with my sentiments, and it has been really difficult to deal with everything. I know we beat him and all, but we lost so much, and I could not bring myself to face you guys, or even write back to your letters, when I was drowning in my own ignorance and sadness.” 

It felt good to finally release the tension that had been permanently engraved in her mind for the entirety of her summer. Lyra could literally feel the arms of her grief, which had been wrapped tightly around her psyche for the months of isolation, begin to loosen their hold, allowing her to feel something other than the bitter frostiness of total impassiveness.

However, before she could bask in her new airiness, Lyra watched as a single tear rolled down the side of Hermione’s crimson cheek. Lyra’s eyes widened, and she turned to Harry and Ron, who had been listening into the conversation. 

Praying the boys got the hint that she was desperately in need of some help, she attempted to comfort Hermione by scooching closer to her, and wrapping an arm around her now trembling shoulders.

Just as Harry understood Lyra’s need for assistance, though Ron was still giving her a look of confusion, Hermione started whispering through her quiet sobs, trying to keep her voice low to prevent interrupting the ongoing speech Headmistress McGonagall was reciting. 

“Oh Lyra—I am so—so sorry,” she explained while her eyebrows knit together with dejection, “I did not realize— that— that you were going through that.” Lyra wiped the tears that were now freely falling down Hermione’s cheeks away, and gave her shoulder a tight squeeze.

“Hermione, It’s completely fine. I am sure lots of people are going through the same thing as I am, and I did not want to bother you guys with my rubbish attitude. I just needed some time to myself.” Lyra turned towards the boys, who were also giving her looks of regret. 

“Boys, I am really sorry for not answering your letters and such, and Ron please tell your mother that I miss her cooking, and that I am sorry for not answering her letters either.” Ron nodded and smiled at her reassuringly.

“Ah, don’t worry about it mate. We are just glad you're finally talking to us again. I missed dueling with you while we were searching for the Horcruxes, and pranking Harry was quite the— oh.” Ron paused after realizing the allusion he had made to Fred.

Fred and George had always been the pranksters of Hogwarts, and now that Fred was gone, well pranking had become a sensitive subject.

Harry was quick to change the direction of the conversation as he and Ron jumped into a banter about Hermione’s quickness to begin crying, apparently it had been happening all day. Hermione busied herself with being defensive while the boys called her names such as “Whiny Mione.”

Lyra became bored with the conversation quickly, faking a few laughs here and there; she had grown to be not as bubbly as she was previously. The trio were always great friends, and during the war, they had grown quite close with Lyra being the ‘Head of Defense’ of the group.

Since she was so skilled with battle, and the others were, well they were just decent at it, Shacklebolt had decided that Lyra would accompany them on their search for the Horcruxes. Of course, since Lyra and the trio were extremely close, even before Shacklebolt’s request, she knew that they were planning on going to be absent longer than the couple of weeks that everyone else expected them to be gone.

For this reason, she had refined her battle skills extensively, making sure to leave all the information she knew about how to win the war on a detailed analysis just in case something were to happen to her, and she went on with the trio as their ‘Head of Defense’ on the hunt for remaining Horcruxes. 

Lyra was determined to give her friends as much attention as possible, seeing as she felt guilty for getting them anxious over the summer, but when she noticed Ginny leaning her head on Harry’s shoulder and Ron and Hermione not so discreetly holding hands under the table, she stopped all efforts to actively participate in the conversation.

She was not going to be the fifth wheel, ergo the only person without a lover.

Scoffing slightly under her breath at the notion of being alone, telling herself that she was an independent woman that did not need some lousy vanilla man to please her, she turned her attention towards headmistress McGonagall who was animatedly pronouncing the beginning of term speech.

“—this year we will be holding a start-of-term masquerade ball that only seventh and eighth years will be able to attend now that the dangers of the previous year have been abated.” The headmistress turned her head towards a group of sixth year girls that were now groaning rather loudly at the news that they would not be able to go to the ball.

McGonagall’s subtle hint directed towards last year's ‘dangers,’ as she so simply worded it, made Lyra’s insides pulse with a familiar sense of discomfort. She could not help the feeling of doubt that fluttered jovially in her gut from arising. It was like something was trying to warn her that whatever last year’s ‘antics’ were, they were far from abated. 

“Yes, yes girls; such a disappointment,” McGonagall drawled on, “Anyhow, I would like to remind students, and inform first-years that the Forbidden Forest is still, in fact, forbidden. I am looking at you Potter.”

Harry, who had been divulged in a hushed argument with Ron about Quidditch, looked around confused at the mention of his name, and let out a nervous laugh upon realizing everyone’s eyes were trained on him.

Shaking her head with disappointment at Harry’s obliviousness, the headmistress continued, “I believe that is all for now, although, I would like to congratulate Mr. Malfoy and Ms. Wolf on their new positions as Head Boy and Head Girl. I am glad to know we will have two…. Er… determined students in the position.”

Shite.

She’d forgotten that she promised Minerva to take the position of Head Girl after Hermione declined the offer, claiming she would be “too busy studying for the NEWTS and campaigning for half-breed rights.”

At the time it did not seem like such the issue, but now that she had already been overwhelmed by an action so trivial as walking throughout the corridors of Hogwarts, it was quite the dilemma. 

She looked around at her fellow students, most of which were staring avidly at her, when her nervous eyes finally fell on Draco’s cold ones. 

Behind the initial terror that accompanied his attention, she could see the questioning look that he gave her, indicating that he had been unaware of her position as Head Girl, just as she had been incognizant of his position as Head Boy. 

Lyra stole a horrified look at Harry, who had been asking her if she was alright. “Yes, I am fine, just surprised. I must have forgotten that I was Head Girl...”

Harry gave her a worried glance, but he shrugged it off and gave her a reassuring look instead. Hermione, who had thankfully calmed down since their last conversation, patted her on the shoulder and told her that she would do great as Head Girl.

Right. Head Girl.

The start-of-term feast appeared in front of them, just as delicious-looking as usual, but this time Lyra’s appetite had not peaked. Truly, she believed that if she had anything so much as a bite, she would vomit all over the table.

Ugh… she just really did not feel like having the responsibility of Head Girl, especially with Malfoy as her partner.

After Ron had finished devouring the entire contents of his plate for the third time that evening, it was finally time to head to the dorms and fall asleep.

She lazily instructed some of the prefects that had approached her to show the first years to their common rooms and tell them the passwords, and she headed off towards the Gryffindor tower with Ron, Harry, and Hermione trailing behind.

Lyra could tell that she was not the only one who was struggling with the effects of the war. Hermione was clearly a lot more sensitive, Harry had red-rimmed eyes that hinted at the insomnia that was most likely affecting him, and Ron’s appetite had increased significantly since before the war, probably as his coping mechanism. Though, that was saying a lot seeing how Ron’s appetite had always been abnormally large. 

The only thing that separated them and Lyra was that they were actually making an effort, but Lyra had given up on that ages ago. It was pointless. 

She needed an escape, something to do that would take her mind off the somber that was creeping up on her.

The piano room. That would be perfect.

She turned on her heels to head towards the direction of the hidden room, and bumped into Ron. “Oh!” she exclaimed, stepping back slightly. “Where are you going Lyra?,” he asked questioningly. 

“I just… forgot to tell one of the prefects something, I’ll be in the common room in no time. You guys can go on.”

Hermione exchanged glances with boys and then shrugged casually, “Okay, we’ll see you around Lyra,” and they continued climbing the moving staircases that led to the Fat Lady’s portrait.

She had expected more of a fight from them, but oh well.

Jogging straight for the hallway on the fourth floor, her steps echoing throughout the corridors, she stopped in front of a blank wall and whispered the words apertum musicorum. 

A small door, about half her height, emerged from the wall, the small latin letters that lined the entrance rippled with magic. She smiled, scanned the corridor for any onlookers, though there were none due to the curfew that was only minutes from being enforced, and crawled through the door.

In the middle of the dimly lit room, containing a small window bordered by cream colored drapes on the far-side, and flickering candles that floated under a gilded mirror, stood an intricately designed viennese piano with gold accents and carved wood. 

Lyra approached the bench, inhaling the familiar smell of mahogany that she’d been craving since she last entered the covert room in sixth year.

It was the day after Dumbledore’s funeral that she came into the small sanctuary to sob unapologetically, and compress the irrevocable sorrow with a few notes on the piano.

Now, she raised trembling fingers to the keys, and launched into a passionate piece she composed just recently. The notes thrummed her insides, plucking away at her distress until all that was left to strum were the strings of drowsiness that had not been satiated in such a long while.

The intense notes began to calm, developing into a silky melody that no longer tugged on her brain, but caressed the wounded segments of her mind until they too diminished into nothing but stray worries in a universe lavished with a trifle of harmonious tunes. 

Lyra was tired. She was exhausted by the self-inflicted torment she had put herself through for the past few months, and realized that the only way to stop the unnecessary harassment to her psyche would be to do something substantial.

So she presented herself with an ultimatum. Either go on being this depressed, ickle, fragile creature, or get a grip and do something about it. After all, she was only the catalyst to her very own destruction. 

The latter seemed like the most appealing option.

She let her fingers stumble on the notes, stood up, and took a final glance at the room as she headed towards her single dorm: one of the only benefits that came with being the Head Girl.

___________________ … ____________________

Her skin was dewy from the steaming shower, and the mirror foggy from the water vapor presently making the air in the bathroom quite dense and humid. Her hair, which was thankfully dry as a result of the hot air that streamed out of her wand with a complicated whirl, was frizzy with the mugginess of the atmosphere. 

Stepping out of the tiled bathroom, Lyra made her way to the small, yet perfectly suitable closet and put on a pair of lacy undergarments, allowing for the burgundy towel that was wrapped around her frame to drop into a heap on the ground. 

Studying her figure in the full-length mirror, deciding that she looked as lovely as possible for a girl who had been through what she endured, she ran her hands over her skin, all the way to her neck, and ultimately rubbing her eyes. Merlin, she was enervated. 

The dark circles under her eyes were quite the reminder that she had gotten little over three hours of sleep every night for the past few months, what with the returning nightmares, and persistent insomnia. 

She had lost a bit of weight, nothing she couldn't easily gain back, but still a noticeable amount. Her wrists were bony, and her ribs were starting to protrude from her skin, reminiscent of the Thestrals she despised looking at.

She made the short way to her queen bed and checked to see that the knife she hid in her night table’s drawer was still readily available in case of an emergency. It was one the enchanted daggers she kept either strapped onto her leg under her clothes, or in her satchel, prepared to make an abrupt appearance if ever necessary.

Her journal was haphazardly left opened on the armchair that was just across from her bed, filled with the numerous entries Lyra had added to several people’s pages. In Draco’s she had made sure to include that he was a horrific person with absolutely no kindness as a way to vent her anger at him for staring at her all throughout the start-of-term feast. 

Honestly, those glacial eyes oh his were outright frightening. 

Lyra searched for a comfortable position under the covers, whispering a spell to distinguish the various candles placed across her single dorm, and closed her eyes to the soft sound of wind blowing against her windows.

Before she knew it, Lyra was swept into a deep sleep that she had not experienced in what seemed like ages. 

___________________ … ____________________


	4. EPHILIATES

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: MENTIONS OF KNIFE USE BLOOD AND TORTURE :)

_Lyra_

_A viscous substance was clinging to the soles of her bare feet as she trudged along the dingy pathway rather clumsily._

_She felt dirty, as if she had not bathed in months and the only remnants of hygiene ever existing were far-off memories from long ago that she struggled to even recall. She was drenched in sweat, the perspiration dripping down from the tip of her nose to the edge of her chin, her hair matted and stuck to her forehead, adhering to the back of her neck._

_Her skin was moist and unnaturally rigid, covered in scars and cuts she had no memory of ever receiving and stripped of any color that might have been there once upon a time. It was dull, almost grey despite the sheen of sweat that hinted at some sort of body heat, the surface covered in goosebumps that sent shivers down her spine._

_Her bones felt weak and fragile as the ones in her legs attempted to sludge their way through the eerily warm liquid pooling at her feet and undoubtedly getting under her grimy toe-nails. Her cheeks were especially hollow, making each one of her shallow breaths sound like puffs of smoke exhaling from decaying pipes._

_She could scarcely make out any shapes through her unusually blurry vision, the only sign of life in them being her dilating pupils that altered between small and large in an effort to adjust to her dim surroundings._

_She was shaking, trembling mainly, probably from some sort of chill in the air, a conclusion she couldn't confirm however due to her brain's inability to accurately decipher the temperature at that moment._

_Her mind seemed to be functioning correctly in terms of reaching a destination, be that as it may a destination that was consciously unknown to her._

_Yes...her feet certainly had a mind of their own and it seemed it would be a while before she found out exactly where they were taking her._

_Unfortunately, that would not be the case when in a trice, a rattling, or more accurately a hissing sound echoed in the surrounding atmosphere causing her mind to seep into a faintly aloof state. It was as though an unidentified preternatural creature was calling for its meal, and she was the unsuspecting prey answering it's hypnotizing calls._

_No matter how hard she struggled against its hold, it was relentless in its attempt and frankly, she never stood a chance. Eventually, she gave up the mental struggle and let the creature's calls lead her along the dark and unfamiliar path towards Godric knows what._

_Soon, the room, which she now realized resembled the black tiled Ministry of Magic complete with an elaborate throne forged of bones directly in its center, became illuminated by green flames posted on the walls. They were strange in the sense they did not warm their surroundings, but made the temperature drop significantly._

_Looking down, she registered that the sticky substance she had been trudging in was sanguine in color._

_Blood, thick and curdling with her movements._

_Put off by the rusty smell in the air, she inhaled through her mouth. She was now aware that the disturbing hissing had ceased and she could relax the muscles that had been unconsciously clenching._

_She cracked her knuckles and stretched her spine in an attempt to reduce some of the tension, and finally, her now clear gaze drifted towards the assembly of hard white tissue that formed the throne._

_In it, sat a small and wrinkly creature. It was whimpering and twitching as if in unbearable pain and it resembled a human baby, though definitely not as appealing. Perhaps this...thing was what had been making the noises._

_Very confused by her surroundings, she stepped forward, leaving a trail of blood in her wake. Before she could reach the throne however, the squat creature started to tremble and form into a different shape, finally transforming into a lengthier version of itself._

_Voldemort._

_"Well hello darling," the words slithered from his mouth and his tongue flickered out with his strange pronunciation of the locution._

_"Let us see what she can tell us....hm," he spoke to a hidden assembly of Death Eaters._

_She had not seen the Death Eaters that surrounded her and Voldemort before, but now they were all making their presences known with shrieking and sardonic laughter that vibrated the very ground she was standing on._

_One of the Death Eaters started to approach her from behind, never ceasing his maniacal snickers, his black boots making their way through the blood on the floor that had started to boil with his contact._

_Once he was all but a foot away from her trembling form, he grabbed her head in a strong grip, turning it back towards his master._

_Her watering eyes met with the ghastly red ones of her greatest nightmare, and before she could put up any defense, Voldemort was plunging into her mind with vicious claws that scrapped at her insides leaving nothing behind other than her severed remains._

_He was searching for something specific in her memories. First he watched as she, Hermione, Ron, and Harry set up camp in the Black Forest and were reciting the protection spells that would encase the clearing in invisibility._

_Voldemort watched as she prepared her weapons in case of an unexpected encounter with snatchers, and then abruptly slashed at the memory with unbearable force. She shrieked._

_He then moved on to the time the snatchers had somehow been able to capture them, even with two of her daggers lodged into one of their feet, and the other with an arrow going straight through his abdomen. This time, she could feel her emotions at that moment. Her desperation, her guilt, her fear._

_He lacerated that memory as well, bringing out another of her chiming screeches._

_Voldemort skipped ahead to when Dobby had saved them all by apparating them out of the manor and causing the chandelier to come crashing down. Dobby was dying all over again. Voldemort laughed in her mind. He left the reminder of Dobby's death untouched._

_It was execrable. If she did not concentrate too hard on monitoring what Voldemort was witnessing, she could hear her own screams back in the place that resembled the Ministry._

_She could feel her muscles giving out and her body crumbling onto the floor while seizing. She could listen to the ongoing laughter of the surrounding Death Eaters._

_No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't get her Occlumency to work and it was all too much._

_She was dying at the hands of Voldemort and no one was coming to save her._

______________ ... ______________

Routinely, when Lyra awoke from a nightmare, she jolted up pin straight in her bed, the coils screeching with her sharp movement, and her mind acutely aware of her surroundings.

Once she disentangled her nightmare from her reality, she would be unsurprised to find her hand clasping around the handle of her dagger, and her body positioned for a fight. Her casting hand would be held defensively in front of her body for wandless magic, though her wand would not be far from her reach.

It was routine. Habit. A recurring regimen.

Yet this time, when she woke up in the dead of night, her eyes were dazed; she remained huddled up in a clammy ball under the sheets, severely lacking in cognizance.

Her throat was burning from the strain of her screams and her figure was trembling violently with fright. Surprisingly, she had not awakened the rest of the castle thanks to her dorm's remoteness from the primary Gryffindor dormitories.

Still under the weight of the duvet, Lyra focused on the vehement gusts of wind that knocked on her darkened window, begging for entrance, and thought of a piano tune that would compliment such a demanding tone of nature.

Preoccupied with the beguiling task of her own distraction, the dark figure approaching her bed went unnoticed.

Two things occurred in quick succession; the figure stood over her, casting a shadow over her bed, and grasped her jaw firmly.

Her vision was still blurry from the tears she had not managed to blink away, making it impossible to clearly see who was gripping her so harshly and pinching her nose, tipping a flask against her gasping lips.

The last thing she felt before her eyes shut were strong calloused hands loosening their grip, sweeping away a stray strand of hair, and a weight that dented her bed, causing her body to lean into the unknown threat.

The thick substance from the flask poured down her unwilling throat and she was once again swept into a sedative state.

______________ ... ______________

It was freezing.

That was her first thought after waking up that morning in her dorm.

Groaning, she stretched her sore muscles and noticed that the confining feeling of her sheets did not accompany the motion. No wonder, her duvet had crumpled onto the floor along with her wrinkled sheets as if she'd been thrashing around all night.

That's when she realized she _had_ been doing just that. The dream played out in her mind in pulsing flashes and the more she remembered, the more the agony of it came rushing back into her pulse causing her adrenaline to run wild.

Denoting a deep articulate sound from the back of her sore throat, she squeezed her eyes shut and lay in bed trying to regain her usual composure. This was not the time for a breakdown.

She thought of the piano. Her hands shuffling along the keys, each press of her fingers releasing a mellifluous melody into her ears.

Each note was like a tranquilizer dart, something muggles used to reduce irritability or agitation in animals by-way-of anesthetic drugs. They punctured into her eardrum, initially causing pain with their acuity, then transfiguring into waves of placidity and surges of dopamine.

It was her form of occlumency.

Once everything was tucked into the very back of her brain, she slowly reopened her eyes and came face-to-face with the least comforting pair in all of the wizarding world.

She made a deft motion with her nimble limbs. Before he could so much as blink she had reached into her night table's drawer, retrieved her dagger, and held it firmly to his trachea, ready at any second to slice his carotid artery in a swift slash.

"Why are you here Malfoy," she said in a voice that was slightly too calm for someone who was currently holding a deadly weapon to a wizard's throat.

He chuckled. Moving faster than she thought possible, Malfoy grabbed the hand threatening his pharynx and pinned it above her head against the bed's headboard, his toned body hovering over her with his knees pressed against either side of her thighs to hold her there indefinitely.

Lyra looked at him in shock, but shook it off quickly. "Explain yourself Malfoy or granted, you'll regret doing that."

"I doubt that, however, I am not in the mood to deal with your incessant nonsense so I'll let that slip this time," he said in a tone that seemed nearly genuine.

"Let that slip?" she all but scoffed, "You act as if what I do is something you _permit,_ but let me tell you something, if you ever believe you can control _me,_ then you are thoroughly mistaken. Now answer my question."

Still hovering over her body, his arms flexed on either side of her head and he leaned closer to her face. "I was in my dorm last night and discovered a hidden passageway that connected the Head Boy and Head Girl dorms. I was unaware of that at the time, so I ended up in your room and heard you screaming at the top of your lungs. You wouldn't shut it so I went to my room, retrieved some Sleeping Draught, and forced it down your throat. Happy?"

She was surprised by his immediate honesty but brushed it off as his hot breath ghosted across her forehead, even so, she didn't let it unsettle her. "No, not happy, because that still doesn't provide ample reasoning for you still being here," she replied with her eyebrows crunching in irritation.

He huffed. "After you finally stopped screaming, the passageway had closed and it would not reopen. I couldn't simply leave through your door because that would require your password which I do not have, so I slept here instead."

Her eyes widened at the overt admission. She had never known Malfoy to be this obnoxiously blunt. Why in the world was there a passageway between the Head's dorms in the first place?

"What?" she asked at once.

His features contorted into a wicked scowl. "I am sure you heard me, don't act like such a dimwit when you are truly nothing but the opposite. What could I do other than sleep here?"

Lyra scowled at his blatant words, not able to discern if the first part was his form of a compliment.

"Let me get this straight Malfoy, you, the same person who bullied me for years, called me a mudblood, and attempted numerous times to physically hurt me, are claiming to have given me Sleeping Draught and dozed off in the same room as me out of the kindness of your heart and inconvenience of a dysfunctional hidden passageway?"

"Yes," he responded without hesitation.

What in the world was happening to her? Was this some sort of twisted trick? If so, she would not have a scruple against returning the dagger to his throat and this time, actually finishing the job.

Nonetheless, she couldn't deny the fact that she dimly recalled someone pouring a liquid down her throat last night, and his story seemed to match the memory.

For minutes the two remained quiet, shooting daggers into each other's eyes, that is until they both realized the obscenity of their situation.

Lyra Wolf was in a scandalous pair of undergarments, pinned to her bed by Draco Malfoy, who was hovering over her half-naked body, a dagger not so far from his grasp, clearly having slept the night in her room.

Malfoy instantaneously rose from the somewhat compromising position and rushed towards the armchair near her small makeshift library wearing a disgusted look on his face.

Meanwhile, Lyra dragged her crinkled bed linen from the floor and wrapped it around her exposed torso wearing a similar expression of distaste.

"What is it with you Malfoy? Are you attempting to receive some sort of redemption where everyone forgives you and the world goes on with its merry ways with Draco Malfoy as its 'redeemed man of the century.' Is that what you expect?" Her face was turning a deep fuchsia with her anger.

When he didn't respond immediately she continued, "What do you want? For everyone to deem you a vindicated man? Or are you really playing one of your sick mind games where you convince everyone you're good and trustworthy and then you turn your back on them with absolutely no hesitation or guilt."

Suddenly, a vivid evocation floated to the surface of her thoughts and it was like sinking her head into the contents of a pensieve in which her own memories swirled within.

It was two o'clock in the afternoon at her home back in London. The Battle of Hogwarts had occurred three weeks earlier, and she was in her stage of denial.

Draco Malfoy was staring straight at her through the pages of the Daily Prophet, announcing to the public his new initiative for _Post-War Rehabilitation_.

Rita Skeeter had dedicated the whole front page to "Draco Malfoy: The Hidden Hero Behind the Battle," in which she wrote exclusively about the Ex-Death Eater's "true" part in the War, portraying him as the most eligible wizarding bachelor, and a man who was covertly on the side of good.

Allegedly, though she had a hard time believing any of Rita's words, Draco Malfoy had been trained by the best in Voldemort's ranks, consequently making him the most effective weapon against his own side.

At the battle, unlike many of the Order members who refused to cast dark magic, Draco had killed 63 Death Eaters with a flick of his wand, 12 with his bare hands, and 6 using a quill, feather and all, after his wand had been snapped in half.

A bloody quill.

Some called him a monstrous machine. Others called him their savior. Either way, he had played a significant role in their victory whether she could admit it or not.

And then he went on to create an initiative for Godric's sake.

One that would work specifically towards rehabilitating magical families who were affected by the War, focusing primarily on future generations of wizarding folk learning about the history of the battle and second reappearance of Voldemort throughout their Hogwarts education.

All at the age of 18.

He and the Headmistress were collaborating on altering the wizarding perspective on Slytherins, once and for all diminishing the stigmatization that the Slytherin House currently possessed.

At the time, she scoffed at the prospect that Draco Malfoy of all people would be doing this, especially just three weeks post war. So she tore the prophet into shreds, and never thought of it again.

Until now.

Now everything made sense. Why Draco had not called her a mudblood on the Hogwarts Express. Why he and his mother were not currently in Azkaban. Why McGonagall was holding this supid start-of-term dance as a way to join the houses in celebration.

Her mind was catapulted into the present at the profound hum of Draco's voice. "Wolf. Snap out of it and tell me the bloody password so I can leave this hell hole. And quit yammering about redemption, it's almost piteous."

Well, he surely wasn't making an effort to display the "gentleman aristocrat" facade he had been wearing all summer.

Honestly, it was quite the relief. She didn't think she could bear him pretending to be some new and improved version of himself, or whatever the pages of _Witch Weekly_ described his persona as.

"No," she answered indignantly while trapezing her way towards the closet to change into something more suitable.

She grabbed the closest article of clothing she could and put it on quickly, stepping out of the closet to resume her argument with him.

"I will not stand and watch as you pretend to be some stupid 'savior,' or whatever the papers call you, just so that you can gain some sort of power and then stab everyone in the back!"

She had seen Malfoy lose his patience plenty of times before. He has most definitely been angry with her in the past, however nothing could compare to the way he was glaring at her now.

Draco's veins were pulsing in his tightly shut hands, the one on his forehead protruding rather threateningly. He wore a scowl that made her wish there was some sort of obstacle between them to prevent him from taking the few short strides required to strangle her, something that he seemed to actually be considering at the moment.

To her disappointment, he starts to slowly approach her. She takes a step back each time he takes one forward, eventually having her pressed up against the wall with his breath fanning across her face.

He towers over her, his head tilted downwards to look at the top of her head as she tries not to look up at his haunting features. A strand of his blonde hair falls out of place and brushes against her forehead as he inclines himself closer to her ear.

"Look at me Wolf," he whispers minaciously. Lyra takes a shaky breath and turns her head upwards, apparently not quick enough because Draco slithers his hand to her jaw and jerks it up for their eyes to meet.

"What I do is none of your business and you have no right to assume that everything I do is of malintent. If you so much as look at me accusingly again I will not hesitate to do something about it. Give me the damn password and I'll never so much as glance at you again. Do we have a deal?"

Lyra was fuming. Who is he to tell her what to do? She already told him that he could never control her, so it was truly pointless. On the other hand, she could not pass up on his offer for them to never interact again.

"Fortuna Major," she blurted before she could change her mind.

"What?"

"It's the password dumbarse. Get out before I kill you myself."

"If you insist on love" he draws with a smirk on his face.

The response stuns her. Lyra's eyes flutter shut, whether it be from agitation or something completely different, and she inhales deeply.

She senses him taking his hands away from the sides of her head, and heading for the door. Without a word, he's gone.

Lyra lets out the breath she'd been holding since having those words uttered in her ear as she was pressed against the wall. She was sure to have bruises from how hard she stumbled into it.

Bending down to pick up her dagger that had somehow fallen to the floor during their interaction, she notices that her journal was no longer where she had left it open last night.

A sense of dread sinks to the bottom of her stomach. She quickly straightens up, dagger in hand, and chances a glance at the page it was open to.

No.

Malfoy had of course, been reading her analysis on him. Great, now he probably thought she had some weird obsession with him.

She closes the journal, stuffing it into her satchel and running to the bathroom to quickly clean up her appearance to head down to the Great Hall for breakfast. This was going to be a long first day of classes.

______________ ... ______________

"Gosh Lyra, everyone is staring at you," Hermione says as she rolls her eyes and pushes a strand of curly hair behind her ear.

"I know, I don't understand what the big deal is," Lyra answers as her anxiety starts to get the best of her.

She and Hermione were sitting at the Gryffindor table, laden with breakfast and parchment from the earlier arrival of mail.

That morning, after Lyra had regained her composure following the sordid encounter with Malfoy, she had made her way down to the Great Hall, only to be confronted by hundreds of stares from her fellow classmates.

"Don't be silly Lyra," Hermione stated fairly condescendingly. "I mean, have you not looked at yourself in the mirror lately?"

Lyra's head, which had been turned away from Hermione while surveying the room snapped back towards the girl who was giggling uncharacteristically. Hermione was not a giggler.

"Um, yea I have looked in the mirror lately and frankly, I was disappointed."

Hermione snorted, making a few heads turn her way, but she paid no attention to them and continued her equivocal conversation with Lyra.

"Oh come on Lyra, do tell me you have at least noticed that you've changed significantly since the war. Sure you look rather tired, and you have gotten a bit scrawny over the summer, but otherwise, you are quite the sight for sore eyes." Hermione's eyebrows wiggled teasingly as she said the last part.

"Are you alright Hermione? Are you feeling queasy or something because you are acting odd today?"

"No-"

Lyra interrupted with the realization, "Oh, I see, you're trying to hide whatever is causing everyone to stare from me. Is it really that bad? Either way I can take it, Hermione, go on."

Hermione was now staring at her, mouth agape, quivering at the edges as though it could turn up into a crooked grin at any second. "Wow, you really don't get it, do you?"

Yeah, something was definitively off about Hermione, she thought as she shot her a quizzical glance.

"Bugger off Hermione, usually the boys are the ones to act weird around me. Where are they anyways?"

Sighing in surrender, Hermione decided to move on from her initial topic and instead, answer Lyra's question. "Oh, Harry and Ron went off for auror training. They made an arrangement with the headmistress so that they could participate in their auror training while completing eighth year. I warned them that it would interfere with their studies, but of course, you know the boys, they...."

Lyra gave up on listening to Hermione drone on about the boy's whereabouts almost immediately, because honestly, she couldn't care less. Everyone seemed to be getting on with their lives as if Voldemort and his forces had not wiped out half of the student population a mere few months from now.

The dense atmosphere of despair was evident amongst both the students and the staff, but no one was falling dead from asphyxiation. No one but her.

Ginny soon joined the table to speak with Hermione, only ever casting a few worried glances at Lyra and a hastened "good morning."

Lyra moved her breakfast around on the plate with her fork, occasionally having it spill over onto the table but going otherwise untouched.

Once sufficient time had passed for it to be anything but abrupt, she gathered her things, waved to the girls, and dodged several questioning eyes on her way to the library.

Upon arrival, she smiled at the new librarian who was set to replace the late Madam Pince, and navigated to the very back to her favorite table, grabbing a thick book from the shelves on the way, where her musings could finally go unimpeded.

She inhaled the familiar scent of parchment and wood, content to be back at her safe haven, even releasing an audible sigh of satisfaction as she settled into the big comfy wingback chair.

Hours passed where her wish for being left uninterrupted was fulfilled, but, tranquility never lasts, she thought almost humorously at its irony. Someone was pulling out the wingback chair in front of her, not bothering to muffle the noise of the chair legs scraping across the floor.

She refused to give whoever it was the satisfaction of witnessing her vexation, so she ignored it and continued skimming the pages of Miranda Goshawk's Book of Spells.

Admittedly, it was a bit lazy of her to try to brew the potions in the back of the library, but since the book had the convenient ability to conjure utensils with which the reader can brew the various potions included, it would be a crime not to take advantage of it straight away.

She was about to add the last ingredient of boom berry juice to produce Wiggenweld Potion, something to hopefully counteract the flobberworm mucus in the unusually powerful Sleeping Draught Draco had given her (she was having some nasty side effects), when the stranger coughed loudly, making her pour in too much of the boom berry juice.

She grunted with frustration and looked up to face the soon to be dead person who had deliberately befouled her potion, "What is your problem dipstick?"

"Oh darling, I am just enjoying a bit of light reading. Don't mind me," the slytherin from the train grinned devilishly.

"Excuse me, I don't even know who you are and yet you still manage to ruin my day."

"I'm Romeo Drimld Lovat, yes I know that my middle name is awful but you can blame my mother for that. And for ruining your day, was your day really so horrid that messing up your potion entirely derelict it?'

"Yes, and you just made the misery ten fold. You're a dirty sewage rat, you know that?"

"Oh, don't give me that muggle sewage rubbish, I may as well be the only good thing that occurred to you all day."

"How is that?"

"I already have a vile of Wiggenweld Potion right here," he says as he pulls out a miniscule glass vile, "All you have to do is ask for it nicely."

Lyra glanced between his challenging eyes before glancing at the vile he was holding out to her.

"There is no way I will ask for anything nicely, especially if you think I am dumb enough to take a potion from a stranger." Lyra grabs her absurdly poofy hair, a consequence from the precipitation the cauldron was emitting, and puts a quill through it to keep it up.

She turns indignantly away from Romeo and prepares to rebrew the potion with a quick vanishing spell.

"Is that right?" his deep voice interrupts after a while of silence. She turns back to him looking quite disgruntled that he chose to continue their conversation and states, "It is," with a slight tilt of her chin.

"Your loss Wolf," and he gets up and walks away, slipping the vile back into his robes pocket without so much as a glance in her direction.

Gosh, she thought, he truly was an odd person.

______________ ... ______________

Classes went by slowly, the worst of them being potions, which was tremendously disappointing considering that it was usually her favorite class of all, however Draco Malfoy spent the entirety of the lesson glaring at her like some infected zombie.

It was most unsettling, that she could easily admit, but she couldn't deny that it had seriously creeped her out, a feeling she would rather keep a secret. If Malfoy found out that his attempts to perturb her were actually succeeding, she'd never hear the end of it.

The fact that he had not kept his promise to never so much look at her again angered her, but she knew he was doing it to get a rise out of her so she would not give him such satisfaction.

Since classes had ended a while ago, she carelessly jotted down a few of her observations on him in her journal, and then moved on to begin a page on the Romeo kid from the library. She sensed he was someone to keep an eye on but couldn't place just why.

Giving up quickly on actually evaluating the reason behind Romeo's behavior, Lyra marched towards the Headmistress' Office thinking it was about time to talk to Minerva.

As she mumbled the password to the Gargoyle guarding the entrance, watching as the spiral staircase formed from thin air, she couldn't help but feel the churning of her stomach.

Lyra climbed up the stairs and prepared to knock, but the door swung open to reveal Minerva McGonagall staring down from over her nose at Lyra's stunned expression.

"Good evening Lyra, I've been expecting you but you have arrived later than I anticipated, nevertheless, do come in."

"Um, yes headmistress," Lyra muttered as she rushed to take a seat in front of the Headmistress, who was already seated in the wingback chair behind the desk. Perched above her head was the portrait of Dumbledore, who was smiling wistfully at Lyra, stroking his beard.

A number of curious instruments, most definitely a few that she recognized from Dumbledore's time in the office, stood around the circular room making peculiar noises. The trinket she most recognized was a miniscule silver object that was releasing small puffs of vapor with each noise.

Saddened to see that Fawkes, Dumbledore's prized Phoenix was not sitting in the golden cage on the far side of the office, Lyra reverted her wandering gaze to Minerva.

"I apologize for not coming sooner-"

"No excuses Miss Wolf, now I have wanted to speak to you about our training lessons, and how I would like to continue them despite the end of the war. It is still of great importance to maintain your magical abilities, and I believe our lessons were assisting you significantly in reaching remarkable achievements."

"Oh," Lyra spoke, slightly taken aback by her bluntness, "That would be great but,"

"Then that is all Miss Wolf, please return to your dorm as it is near curfew already."

"O-Okay, thank you for your time Professor McGonagall." Lyra stood and made her way down the stone steps hurriedly, grasping her wand and heading for her dorm.

Lost in her introspection, she couldn't hear the footsteps following her down the corridor until the person was directly behind her.

She spun around, pointing the tip of her wand at the person's eye, shaking off the arm that had latched onto her robes, but surprised to see that another wand was pointed directly at her heart.

Fuck.

______________ ... ______________


End file.
